May, 1949
by ResOmnesBeneFacere
Summary: We were given no real explanation for why the Friends of Narnia had to die. Simply to be united to Aslan? Why then? Explores the accident in the Last Battle from an Earthly perspective, as a human tragedy with deep divine purpose.
1. Chapter 1

**88888**

**May 2, 1949**

**Parliamentary Office of Sir John Crowder (MP for Finchley), Westminster, England**

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The young man removed his fedora and smoothed his hair before lifting the brass knocker. It was not insecurity, but simple habit and respect for his master, as none had the privilege of entering the grand office unannounced. And Sir John Crowder would not tolerate his aide arriving in anything other than immaculate attire; never mind that the said aide once had half a country watching what he wore.

"Ah, Mr. Pevensie!" called a ponderous voice from inside. "Come right on in."

The young man entered to see Sir Crowder seated, as usual, in his magnificent leather chair. "I recognised your knock," the older man said, setting down his papers and leaning back. "You might as well strike the door with a gauntlet. Well, I believe you arrived early, as usual. Good for you."

"I regret, sir, that I am a minute late. My apologies."

Sir Crowder reached into his vest and pulled out his watch. His jaw moved ever so slightly as he carefully studied the clock-face. Peter was right, as always. Then he looked up and studied the young man. He did not seem arrogant at having had a better sense of time than his master, and he was definitely not sheepish either. Great Scott, he didn't even blink at the morning sunlight shining into his face…

"Ah, you have one of those confounded wrist-watches," Sir Crowder noticed critically. "You'll have to get a proper timepiece."

Peter smiled. This conversation was repeated every Monday. "I would, sir," he said, "but I believe providing for my family has been more important, especially since my father received his injury."

"You're a good chap, Mr. Pevensie. This evening, I'll buy you one."

"Thank you for your generosity, but that will not be necessary." This was not a request, but a statement. It stood as straight and immovable as the clock tower at the corner of this imposing complex of buildings, and Sir Crowder knew this quite well.

"Well, right to work, shall we?" he asked, sighing. But this was quite unneeded, as his aide was already working his way through the voluminous correspondence piled on his desk. Neat stacks began appearing, while a steady stream of rubbish made its way to the nearby bin. Being a parliamentary aide could be a dreary occupation...

"Mr. Strachey will be in Westminster the day after tomorrow for questioning," Sir Crowder added, pushing his chair back and walking to the window. The morning bustle in the street below was just beginning to ebb.

"The party will want to question him about the Tanganyika groundnut scheme," noted Peter, looking up.

"Exactly," declared the older man, with something approaching enthusiasm. "Party leadership thinks this scandal may bring down the present government. Bah! What an idea that was! Imagine, planting peanuts in Africa to supply oil!"

"Will you be questioning the honorable Food Minister on the matter?"

"I should," Sir Crowder growled, turning and going back to his chair, as he did when weightier matters called. "But I have nothing new to offer."

"Then it would be better to say nothing at all about the matter, if I may suggest so. This may be of more present interest," Peter advised, holding up a sheaf of letters. "Many of our constituents have been complaining about not being able to purchase any surplus eggs in the shops, while the restaurants always seem to have a supply."

"Rationing, of course," grumbled Sir Crowder, "and typical inefficiency on the part of the Ministry of Food. Mr. Strachey…"

"Our people have had insufficient egg rations for nine years now," Peter pointed out. "They're becoming restless; people will bear suffering gladly, but if they feel there's been unfairness… injustice, whether real or imagined, will anger any good man, even if it's only eggs. And we cannot afford that; there's been enough trouble with strikes recently. Not to mention the finer points of morality."

Sir Crowder pondered this for a moment. "An excellent point, Mr. Pevensie. I shall be sure to address the matter." And indeed he did, two days later.

There was a genial silence as one man sorted though notes from the last week's sessions and the other sat and thought. Sir Crowder finally broke the silence. "What would you say if I asked you... theoretically... to take my place in the Commons?"

There was no hesitation on the part of the young man. "I would point out that the rules of the House would not permit it, but if I was compelled to do so I believe I could handle it."

Sir Crowder almost smiled. "I may have told you this before, Mr. Pevensie, but I believe you have every qualification to be seated in that hall. And you wouldn't be an old fogey like me, sliding along on the benches of power for a decade or two and then returning to Cornwall for a maybe not-so-well deserved retirement."

"I have no intention of hastening that retirement," said Peter with the utmost tact.

"I'm not so ready for it either," Sir Crowder admitted. The familiar spires and courtyards he could see out the window were quite dear to him, indeed. "You should not and will not be limited by that, though. You are the type of person who will be a mover and shaker, who will be the leader that I never have been."

There was another genial silence, then Sir Crowder looked up again. "I assume that you're aware of the usual process of becoming a Member of Parliament?"

A slightly acidic smile came to Peter's face. "Yes, I'll be sent to stand for a hopeless seat and then, as a reward, run in a safer constituency in the next elections."

Sir Crowder nodded and, somewhat reluctantly, shifted his weight forwards onto the great oaken desk. "Well, I see no sense in wasting talent like yours," he said, somewhat brusquely but fondly. "Enfield Southgate will be an open seat in the next elections. And I happen to know most of the party leaders in that borough."

If Peter was shocked, he did not show it. "I would be honored, sir," he said with conviction. "I'm sure that your trust will not be wasted."

"Very well, then, I assume you are accepting the offer." Sir Crowder pulled out his pocketwatch and traced the engraving on it, as was his custom when he had to deal with something unusual. It was not arrogance, but Peter had poise far beyond what was natural for his years. But then again, that was why he was willing to risk his reputation in recommending him. "I am meeting with several of them this Saturday," he continued. "You're coming with me, of course. And do wear a dinner jacket."

Peter's face fell, though not at the mention of the attire. "I'm honored, but I must withdraw, sir. Important…er, family matters have come up and I shall be occupied over the weekend. I do apologize."

The older man looked sharply at his aide, trying to see if he was hesitating, if he was trying to back out. But if anything, he was standing straighter and with more conviction after saying these words. "Very well," he sighed. "It can wait. But destiny and Britain will not wait on you, Mr. Pevensie."

"Then I'm afraid Britain and destiny must learn to be patient."

Sir John Crowder allowed himself a smile as he watched his young aide moving efficiently through his work once again. Peter would go far indeed, he thought. Never mind that the pupil would quickly surpass the master; the boy had poise and talent and brilliance far exceeding his years. And Sir Crowder was content that when the time came for retirement, he would be able watch his protégé climb the ropes of power. Perhaps he would even sit in this very chair. But no, he had the potential for far more. Perhaps one day 10 Downing Street would call…

Peter had not been at all fazed by the burden of responsibility that was about to be placed on his shoulders. He had been a king, after all. One with far more power than any member of Parliament or even the Prime Minister. And if higher heights called, as Sir Crowder seemed certain, then he would put his all into making this land one that Aslan would be proud of.

Big Ben tolled out the hour, and Peter stopped for a moment to listen to the beloved sound. He was beginning to enjoy working in these halls of power…

But another mission called, one from Aslan himself. And of course that came first. After all, no matter how high he rose in this world, he would always be Aslan's faithful servant.

Peter Pevensie did not know that a Sir Beverly Baxter would ultimately serve as the MP for Enfield Southgate for fourteen years and die in office after an unremarkable career. And certainly he had no idea that Sir Crowder would represent Finchley for ten more years, and that his successor would be another rising politician named Margaret Thatcher.

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_Many thanks to Loopyloo2610 for the beta'ing._

_I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia or any of the historical figures and events in this story._


	2. Chapter 2

**88888**

**May 3, 1949**

**Pevensie Residence, Finchley, England**

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The arm was healing nicely; Lucy had been a fine nurse. Now he sat on the couch, convalescing quickly and desperately wanting to be out of the sling, to be free again. But he had no idea what lay ahead, once his arm was healed. His mind still seemed trapped in the jungle; no path opened before him.

The bell on the door rang sharply and Edmund remembered that the others were all gone. Setting aside his book reluctantly, he slipped on a dressing gown and forced himself to his feet. The kettle of boiling water on the stove drew his attention, and he shut the stove off. What a pity, he thought; he had waited eighteen months for a cup of good English tea…

His heart sank as he opened the door and saw the officer, dressed in immaculately pressed khakis, with hat in hand. "Mr. Pevensie, formerly of the Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards?" the man asked crisply.

Edmund nodded. He did not recognise the insignia on the officer's uniform, but perhaps things had changed since his battalion was deployed. So many other things seemed strange in England now...the music, the clothing, the people...

"It is an honor to meet you," said the officer genially, offering his hand. "I've heard of your bravery during your tour in Malaya." He paused and looked Edmund up and down. "Lieutenant Colonel Calvert, commanding officer, Special Air Service."

Edmund was puzzled. "Colonel Sterling's chaps?" he recollected. "I heard of your exploits in the desert during The War. I thought you had been disbanded? Well, please come in and have a cup of tea."

Calvert nodded but gratefully sat down and watched Edmund brewing the tea, remarkably well for a man with one good arm. He took the offered cup before continuing. "Well, shall we cut to the chase? You are right; the SAS was mustered out of service. We've been reorganised, though, under my command. As you certainly saw during your service, our current tactics are not working in the jungles, against a guerrilla enemy. My plan is to create a force of Britain's finest…men who will be trained in jungle warfare, masters of survival, capable of operating in small teams…and of carrying the war to the enemy's front lawn. In short, men like you…once that arm's healed, of course."

Edmund poured a little of the precious cream into his tea. Four years after The War, rationing still affected their lives. "I served my eighteen months of National Service, and was lucky to survive," he said finally, watching the last bit of white dissolve. "I don't think I'll be going back."

"Your conduct in action would seem to indicate more than a man fighting to survive," noted Calvert, taking another sip of the tea. "You risked your life time and time again for others when you could have escaped. No, I don't think you're as selfish as you make yourself out to be."

"I'm not going back," Edmund said firmly. "It's not that I'm afraid of death or this broken arm…" Far greater battles and injuries flashed through Edmund's mind, images of Beruna and charging centaurs and the glint of the sun off the shards of Jadis' wand before it impaled him. He would have to try to explain the deep emotions he felt to this officer. "It's one thing to grow up with stories of knights in shining armor, to talk of glorious charges and damsels in distress. But I saw a different type of war there, and it's an ugly thing. "

Calvert could sympathise with the younger man. He had seen far more things than he cared for in his own experiences fighting the Japanese. But there was a deeper horror in Edmund's eyes. "You seem to speak of lost heroism and idealism," he said finally, not entirely certain of what to say. "But that medal …your survival for days in the jungle cut off from support, how you fought to the very end, your devotion to your men..."

The Distinguished Conduct Medal pinned to the sergeant's uniform in his room upstairs weighed heavily on Edmund. "That medal seems like almost like a mockery to me," he said, cupping his face in his hands. "It's a reminder of all those that didn't make it, while I did. The least I could do for my men was protect them."

The Lieutenant Colonel was puzzled. With Sergeant Pevensie's reputation, he had expected him to wear the uniform once again with immense pride when given the chance to serve in such an elite unit. After all, his entry into the Coldstream Guards had hardly been proper, but by the time the mistake was discovered he had become far too valuable to ship off to a regular unit. This young man was different, but exactly the type of person the he needed. And having fought through miles of bureaucracy and opposition to reform his unit, Mike Calvert was not going to be stopped from recruiting the men he needed to make his dream a reality.

"And that's why you are so valuable," he said, setting his cup down on the table between the two men. "Mr. Pevensie, you saved the lives of every men in the squad that you could. The Lion of Tapah, I believe they called you. You would fit perfectly in the SAS. Now, I've gone through all the experiences you have, in Burma, and we can put an end to what those terrorists are doing…"

Edmund almost laughed at Calvert's words. "But not in two worlds," he felt like saying. The memory of Jadis had been nearly expunged from his mind, only to be reawakened by all the treachery he had encountered in Malaya and by the reign of terror that the rebels had unleashed on the regions under their control. He was tired of war; he was tired of being a hero in this dark world…

"You likely won't earn many medals with us, Mr. Pevensie. It will be war in the shadows, where only your comrades and the people you protect will know of your deeds. But Britain needs men who are willing to make that sacrifice. _We_ need you."

The word sacrifice meant many things to Edmund. He thought of the local policemen he had seen, captured and tortured by the guerillas. He thought of the frightened Malayan villagers they had gone to protect, and of seeing them dead mere days after leaving them. He thought of his old comrades hacking their way through the dense tropical jungle and fighting and dying in that foreign land. Hopelessness had filled him then at not being able to solve the problem, at being a little ant in the grand picture of things, and he knew this time would be no different. And so he thought of the enormity of this sacrifice Lieutenant Colonel Calvert was asking for.

Then he remembered another great sacrifice, one that had been made for him, the ultimate sacrifice of all. And it was a sacrifice that had been made twice over, in two worlds. Almost frighteningly, his path was becoming clear as daylight.

"Britain calls, and I shall answer," he said firmly, taking Calvert's offered hand. "For God and country."

Edmund Pevensie had decided to offer his life for a higher good. He did not know that Aslan had accepted the sacrifice.

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_Malaya was Britain's equivalent to Vietnam. However, spearheaded by units such as Calvert's SAS and using successful hearts-and-minds tactics, the British and the Malayan government were able to achieve victory by 1958._


	3. Chapter 3

**88888**

**May 4, 1949**

**Finchley and Edgware, London Borough of Barnet, England**

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Lucy latched the gate with a slight pang of regret. In two weeks, she would go through this familiar ritual again. She would even tread this same path, walking the few short miles southwest from Finchley to Edgware, but she would not return.

There were those who doubted her decision, of course. Aunt Alberta had promptly driven down from Cambridge to give her parents a lecture about allowing her to "throw her life away." But Lucy had never felt so at peace as when she had said "yes," and this peace returned whenever she thought of what she was about to enter.

A nameless tune escaped her lips as she walked along the pavement. She did not notice for a few moments that it was an old ditty she had learned in Narnia, one that the fauns would sing to calm their children. The lines between the two worlds had blurred for Lucy; they could not return to Narnia, but it did not matter. She would still serve Aslan, though in a far different manner from any which she had ever imagined.

"I'm here," came a voice from beside her, to her surprise. "Thought it's about time you noticed."

"Oh, Owen!" Lucy exclaimed. She smiled as she noticed how her friend had positioned himself between her and the curb. He would have been a fine knight of Narnia… "I wasn't expecting to see you. Isn't it a bit early?"

"Early?" asked Owen, raising an eyebrow as he offered Lucy his arm. But he could not resist a tease. "Quite the thanks for saving you from wandering into the roadway, eh?"

"Oh, no, you took me by surprise! I thought you had classes till the evening," explained Lucy apologetically.

"Then I'm afraid your memory is as faulty as your sister's knowledge of her name," teased Owen Leakey, as the two shared a laugh at the memory of their first meeting, standing at a newsstand with a harassed Susan Phyllis Pevensie in between. Owen had become a fast friend of the family since, especially of Lucy. Being a friend of a queen had certainly improved his self-confidence, though he did not know exactly how that had come about.

But even then, he was slightly nervous as the two strolled along pleasantly. Finally, he mustered enough courage to speak the words that had been on the tip of his tongue for days. "I was actually looking for you," he admitted. "I wanted to ask you…well, you see…um, would you like to dine this Saturday, at The Catcher in the Rye? Just the two of us?"

Lucy sighed. She would have had to tell him sooner or later, and Owen had forced it to be sooner. "I take it you're asking me to go on a date?"

Owen tried hard not to stammer. "I suppose so," he said. "That is, yes. They have excellent roasts on weekends…"

The girl smiled and patted his linked arm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, Owen, but I'm…I suppose you could say, taken. Forever."

The young man's face fell, but he quickly regained his composure and his manners. "Oh, I had no idea. My sincere congratulations!" He glanced at Lucy's hand, and a slight furrow appeared on his forehead. "Who is it, may I ask?"

To his surprise, Lucy laughed. "Oh, you silly little owl, it's not what you think. I'm becoming a nun!"

Owen did not react to the avian appellation; he had long before discovered that Lucy enjoyed affixing the names of animals to those whom she liked. And he was thoughtful enough now not to blurt out his initial reaction to the last sentence. "I suppose that fits you," he finally said, slowly. "Is it the community in Edgware?"

"Yes, it is," said Lucy, a slight smile returning to her face at the very thought of the place. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you before. I suppose I was a little afraid."

Owen nodded, with realization and acceptance setting in. "I suppose I ought to have guessed, with how much time you spend there. I thought it was just because you enjoyed helping with their patients."

"Oh, I do enjoy that, so much!" exclaimed Lucy. "It's not only for that reason I'm joining, though. It's hard to explain…but I want to serve God alone, and His people. When I'm there, helping the sisters, I feel that I'm at home."

Owen finally smiled. Ever the gentleman, he could see how Lucy lightened whenever she talked of what would be her new life. "And I'm sure that they'll love you. Lucy, I just wanted to thank you for all you've done for me. When I first met you, I was so lonely; I couldn't even look in the mirror without hating myself. Lord, I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry thinking about some of the things I did to make myself feel better, such as that incident with Susan. You and your family took me in…please don't laugh, but I almost feel like royalty when I'm with you." Lucy smiled at this but said nothing, so after taking a breath Owen continued. "But more importantly, you made me realize that being popular isn't as important as being myself, and I'll always be grateful for this."

The girl laughed. "Oh, Owen, you make it sound like we'll never see each other again. You can still visit! But you do have to understand that my duties will come first."

Owen removed his cap and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sure you made the right decision," he said quietly.

"The gentleman as always," Lucy commented with a smile. "But you'll come to understand. You're becoming a man, Owen, and I'm sure you'll be a good husband and father."

"I thought maybe…I hoped I could be that, with you," Owen admitted.

Lucy shook her head. "To tell the truth, so did I. But it only ran flesh-deep. What was in here, deep within, told me I had a different calling."

Owen nodded. "You said I'll come to understand. But I think I already do, and I…I love you all the more for that pure heart. You'll always have a place in mine, no matter what happens."

It was with a pang in her own heart that Lucy watched her dear friend walking away. Owen was now mature enough to find his own way through life, and he would indeed come to accept the separation. But no matter how long she had prepared for this moment, and no matter the joyful façade she had put on for his sake, it still hurt. A more selfish part of her longed to throw all her resolutions to the winds, to call out for him to return.

But she didn't, and it was with the set face of The Valiant that she turned to face her destination. There it was, the Anglican Benedictine Community of Saint Mary at the Cross. The red brick buildings with the white windows could not be missed in the neat rows of little houses that surrounded it, and yet it did not seem to impose itself on the surroundings but to fit seamlessly, like a heart to a body or a smile to a face. Here the poor and the sick found succor, tended by the inhabitants of those walls.

"Ah, my dear Lucy!" exclaimed an affectionate voice as Lucy entered the foyer of the hospital. "I wish I could greet you properly…"

Lucy settled that by taking half of the tottering tower of towels that Mother Perpetua was carrying and following her as she bustled from one room to another. She could not help comparing the nun to Mrs. Beaver, with her energy and great heart.

"It's so good of you to come and help again, but really, you should be spending this time with your family and friends," Mother Perpetua said in between greetings to patients and directions to the other nuns. "There'll be more than enough of this to satisfy you when you've joined us."

Lucy shook her head. "But I never feel as peaceful as when I'm here, Reverend Mother. Beside, my family had a farewell party on Saturday, and then I had dinner with my closest friends again on Sunday. I can't say farewell to people three times."

"Every moment is precious, my child," noted Mother Perpetua, "and someday having made those last farewells will give you comfort. But, my, my, James, your temperature's gotten worse…"

"I'll get some wet towels," exclaimed Lucy, and the next half hour was spent in caring for the grateful old man. This was work in which Lucy had years of experience. And though her acquired skill would never match her cordial's abilities, soon she and Mother Perpetua was able to sigh in relief that what had seemed to be a critical downturn had abated.

"Some very good friends will be leaving for foreign parts this weekend," Lucy said when they finally had a quiet moment. "Can you pray that they have profitable travels?"

"Oh, I certainly will," answered Mother Perpetua. "Where are they going, may I ask? Folk seem to be going everywhere these days, ever since the war. If only they could settle down and enjoy the peace…"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you, Reverend Mother," apologised Lucy. "But their task is _very_ important."

"Oh, you youngsters are so secretive towards us old folk," chuckled Mother Perpetua. "But no matter."

A melodious tolling floated in the evening air, emanating from the tower of the little chapel. It seemed to capture the spirit of this place and what it meant to Lucy- it was so peaceful, and yet represented a call to duty, a reminder that she would be but one of many in this place. She, who had been a queen, would be subject to that metal tone. She would be separated from her family and friends; she could not have Owen. But she had chosen.

"The bell for Vespers," noted Mother Perpetua, taking off her apron and smoothing out the habit below. "You're welcome to join us, of course."

And so a few minutes later Lucy was seated in the nave of the chapel, watching and listening as the nuns chanted the ancient Hour of Vespers, the evening prayer marking the twilight of the day. Soon, she thought, she would be in the choir stalls with the others, joining their hymns…

Lucy had discovered Aslan in this world and she was sure that she had discovered what He wanted of her. She thought of the ermine, with its pure-white winter coat. There was an old legend that the creature would die rather than allow its whiteness to be soiled. So as pure as ermine would she remain, her life at the service of His people and at the calling of Him alone.

Pax. Peace. The motto of the nuns resonated for Lucy. The young woman scrupulously thought back to every time she believed she had failed Aslan. At the gorge on the way to find Prince Caspian, ought she to have gone to Him, regardless of what her family thought? How many times had she placed her own desires above what she knew to be right? But now she was at peace in this world.

Lucy Pevensie was finally willing to sacrifice all for Aslan. And He would grant her dearest wish, to be with Him forever.

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_I do not own any of the actual places described in this chapter; neither do I own the characters, which belong to C.S. Lewis and Walden Media._

_Note: I am not Anglican, but I imagine that C.S. Lewis's characters, like the man himself, would be._


	4. Chapter 4

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**May 5, 1949**

**Experiment House, Cambridgeshire, England**

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Two children sat on a rock on the grey, heathery moor sloping down to meet the stone walls of Experiment House. Behind them, they could hear a seagull cawing as it swept over the East Anglian countryside.

"That bird's a sight too far west, wouldn't you say, Pole?" asked the boy, casting a stone and watching as it bounced down the hillside.

"Oh, bother, Scrubb," exclaimed the other. "Does how far lost it is matter? I want to rest."

Eustace sighed and leaned back against the rock. A lone ray of sunlight peeping through the clouds made that small patch of moss and rock quite delightful in an otherwise dreary day.

"What do you think it will be like after we leave school?" Eustace turned to look at Jill and sighed. "Oh, you're chewing heather again! And you said you wanted to rest?"

"It's so good," sighed Jill. "You do know they make tea from it?"

"I do," grumbled Eustace. "Alberta used to make me drink it."

"I don't know what I'll do," said Jill suddenly, turning onto her side to face Eustace.

"Don't know about what?" asked Eustace, puzzled. "Making me drink that nasty brew?"

Jill laughed. "No," she said, tossing the heather at her friend. "It's just that you become so cross whenever you talk of your parents and I wanted to bring your mind off it. I was answering your question."

"Oh," said Eustace, leaning back. "They're not so bad, you know. I do love them, as much as I argue with them now." After a moment's pause, he sat up again. "Pole, I have no idea what I'll do either. Don't you ever get jealous seeing others so grown-up? Take my cousins, for example. Peter's on his way to becoming a member of Parliament, and Edmund's gone and become a war hero, as if he wasn't one already. And what will we be?"

"My mum says I'll be a good wife and mother," said Jill quietly. She suddenly felt quite shy, with the awkwardness of a child emerging into adulthood.

"Can't see that happening," muttered Eustace.

"Your parents haven't had..that talk with you?" asked Jill. The heather had become very interesting again.

Eustace shook his head, not entirely understanding. "Harold and Alberta say that marriage is outdated now. I've tried to show them using natural law that it isn't, but they don't believe in natural law either. Not that I know or care anything about marriage."

"That's it!" exclaimed Jill, almost forgetting what she had been going to say. "Why don't you become a lawyer?"

"Say that again?" mumbled Eustace, who had drifted off into his own thoughts.

"I said," exclaimed Jill, a little less crossly than she ought to have been, "You should be a lawyer."

"Yes, so I have to read books for another six years," complained Eustace. But the thought was becoming dangerously intriguing.

Jill felt like shaking her friend. "Oh, come off it, Scrubb!" she exclaimed. "I know as well as you how much you really enjoy learning. And you'd be perfect, too. The way you defended Spivvins when he went to you for help was like a regular barrister…"

"That would be like a solicitor," said Eustace, in the lecturing tone into which he still occasionally relapsed. "A solicitor is the one who deals directly with a client."

"Thank you, Scrubb, you proved my point very nicely."

"You…you didn't do that on purpose, did you?" exclaimed Eustace, turning rather red. Jill was preparing to run but relaxed as Eustace leaned back against the rock. "I suppose you're right. But mind you, the next time you ask for a peppermint I'll be horrid too and refuse."

Jill sighed. Eustace knew all her weak spots, all too well. "I'm sorry, Scrubb. But I stand by my words. You'll be a great…solicitor."

"And you'll be a great…" Eustace sat back up. "Why does it keep getting back to you being married? Isn't that just a horrible thought?"

"Well, we're getting to the age where we should be starting to think about it. It would be just lovely, but we can't be sixteen forever. In fact, I even know several girls who were sixteen when they married, after the war."

"You probably think it will be fun to be married, and argue all your life," Eustace said. Unpleasant memories of Harold and Alberta ran through his mind.

"Well, isn't that what friends like us do anyway?" asked Jill. Neither she nor Eustace thought too much of these words. "I do think it would be wonderful, to pledge myself to another till death, and receive his pledge of the same."

"You're thinking about your parents, aren't you," she added when Eustace did not reply. "It's not always that way. I'm sorry, Scrubb."

Eustace let out a sigh and tried to shut out the images of his parents quarreling. "It's hard to imagine anything better when I've lived with…you know what, all my life."

Jill had an idea. "Just imagine you were married to…um, let's see…

"Edith Jackle? Adela Pennyfather?"

"Oh, no," gasped Jill. "You have the most horrid thoughts! How about Eleanor Blakiston or…or myself…"

"That doesn't sound so bad," Eustace admitted slowly. As a matter of fact, he was thinking about Eleanor Blakiston. The thought of being married to Jill was so strange that he quite shut it out of his mind.

"Well, then give it a chance, alright?" Jill asked as she reached out to gather her long-forgotten books. The solemn toll of the first bell drifted up the hill. "Promise?"

"I just need to think about it," said Eustace. "I'm sure I'll find someone decent eventually, given some time. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm sure I'll find someone decent too," Jill responded as they skipped down the hill hand-in-hand to catch supper, "eventually."

That weekend, as their train rounded a turn sharply and he instinctively shielded Jill, Eustace knew.

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	5. Chapter 5

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**The time and the place do not matter.**

**Nothing could change the tragedy that had happened.**

**88888**

Children ran and laughed in the street, so she shut the door. The ticking of the clock in the sitting room seemed echo relentlessly in her head, so she went to the kitchen. And there she sat, her head buried in her hands.

She could not understand. Why them? Why then? She had heard the eulogies, speaking of what fine individuals they had been, and of the potential they all had. But every word of praise only increased her anguish. Of course she knew it all already; they were family. The tributes only served as further reminders of what could have been.

They had been ripped away in the primes of their lives. Bright futures lay before them, and suddenly it was all gone. The future prime minister, the war hero, the angel of mercy of Barnet, the budding couple: all would never be. The world was so much poorer, and yet it would never be the wiser.

But she could not bring herself to cry. No, she almost hated them for dying, for leaving her alone to suffer. And if there was one thing that she could not stand, it was suffering. Yet a whole life of it seemed to stretch before her, and her alone. How could they have been so cruel, so unloving?

She wanted to also die, to be with them in whatever infinite void to which their spirits had fled. The priest said they had given themselves to God. But no God could allow such a thing to happen, she reflected bitterly. They had been His faithful servants, and now they were dead.

Nietzche's words beat a monotonous rhythm in her head. _God is dead, God is dead_, an inextinguishable voice taunted. _They are dead, God is dead. I want to be dead, God is dead, they are dead_. Like a clock it beat, with no respite or pity. She could not stand it any longer. Never mind that Harold was in the next room, longing for some peace and quiet, and mourning for the son with whom he could never be reconciled now. There would not be peace in Alberta Scrubb's soul. "Where was their God?" she screamed to the high heavens. "There was no reason!"

**88888**

Alberta was surprised at how much more she remembered of her son in the long days that followed. Every awkward attempt at an embrace, every laugh and smile was recalled and replayed. Ungrateful and unloving she had thought him, but he was still her flesh and blood, her only child. Now he had been taken away, leaving her with a bare home and a nominal husband. But it was in vain that the tears begged to flow; hard hearts did not crack so easily. And she tried hard not to think of all the scoldings and quarrels. _I never truly loved him and the others while they lived_, a soft voice whispered, and it was quickly silenced. _They had never loved her; what did I do wrong?_ another voice said. _They destroyed all my hopes and ambitions for them_. _I loved them,_ _I provided for them when my brother failed, and this is how they and their illogical deity repay me. Now I am alone. Harold? Humbug!_

Some weeks passed before she ventured into Eustace's old room. It with decades of habit that she pushed open the window, and she realised too late that an unfamiliar dust had accumulated all over the room. So sighing and covering her nose, she went to fetch a cloth and began dusting.

Alberta stopped when she reached the bookcase. All the books of unscientific and uninformative material reminded her of how much Eustace had changed. She recognised "The Bridge of San Luis Rey," among others. But there was one book in particular that she noticed, lying on its side. It was a little black notebook that she had given Eustace for his ninth birthday. In the old days, he would proudly record his marks in it and show them to one and all. But she had not glimpsed the inside for years. The once impressive book was blotched all over with water and dirt stains, seemingly only a good kick away from crumbling into dust. So fitting, Alberta thought. She remembered the earth enveloping and hiding her son forever from her gaze, before he returned to primordial matter. And she turned away, her mouth trembling slightly but eyes focused on the dust around her.

It was just a breath of wind that whistled past the trees and through the eaves and shutters. It would not chill a body, whether it housed a vibrant heart or one as icy-cold as Alberta's. Most people going about their business did not pay it the slightest heed. But it caught the pages of the notebook and flipped through them. The rustling drew Alberta's attention, in time to see a sprig of heather, which had been marking a page, floating through the air. Even as it flew, the last bits of brown leaf crumbled, and then it was no more.

Alberta's hands shook as she reached for the journal, having seen the date on the revealed page. Curiosity was getting the better of her, and yet she feared what she was about to read. Would it be simply another reminder of what she had lost? But she fought back; trembling, she cradled the crumbling pages and began to read.

_7 May 1949_

"_Dear journal: it has now been six years and eight months since Pole and I were in Narnia. Six years and eight months! It seemed like an eternity, and yet that eternity has passed. I wonder what new adventures await us. I wonder if R. and P. and G. will still be there, or if the old muddle about times has happened and they're all gone. _

_Sixth form is finally almost over, after what also seemed to be an eternity. Our last book was jolly decent though; I shall have to buy a copy of "A Tale of Two Cities" for myself. Of course Pole, being a girl, said it was tragic and depressing, but I suspect that she rather enjoyed it. Actually, buy two._

_The hero, Sidney Carton- fancy, I'll be in the same profession that he could have been. Splendid story, but I do wish he had been a better man before he sacrificed himself. In dying for another he atoned for a worthless life; yet he died alone. Only a spy and a seamstress knew of his sacrifice while he lived. The woman for whom he sacrificed himself never realised his love till the end. If he hadn't been a drunkard, if he had some self-respect, what would have happened to Sidney? Could he have lived, as Pole thinks, or at least had the comfort of having been loved before he died?_

_I found myself thinking of this yesterday, when I told Dad and Mum that I had decided to be a solicitor and apologised for taking so long to decide on a career. Dad accepted it, but it seems that nothing will satisfy Mum. She and Dad started arguing about what the market will be like for the profession when I graduate, and about how much they should contribute. The upshot of it was that they agreed to provide for me up to a year after I pass the bar. But they acted as it was as if this was a duty, and an unwanted one at that. They don't know how much it hurts to see them so unhappy because of me. Dad…Mum…I want us to be a family. I want to see you love each other as husband and wife; I want to call you Dad and Mum; I want to feel the love that money will never carry…if there's a greater gift, I haven't seen it yet."_

There were blotches of ink all over these words, but then the writing continued in a more legible script. An image passed before Alberta of her son muttering, "Bother, pull yourself together, Eustace."

" _I also told Peter and the Professor. Peter was full of advice and college recommendations_, _like the elder brother that he is. But to my surprise, the Professor didn't seem to care. He said that it in the end, it doesn't matter since we have to be ready to give it all up when He calls. I suppose D. is right, though I don't understand why he's so pensive. It's as if he has a premonition of some sort. _

_He must be thinking about death, and I even find myself thinking more and more about that. I'm almost afraid-I don't know what will happen in Narnia, yet I'm leaving in a tiff with Dad and Mum. Might it have been my fault? I'll never abandon the principles I've learned these past seven years, as they would have me do. But could I have been a better son? Might I go with a hearty handshake from Dad and a kiss from Mum instead of having to be a sneak about leaving? I look back and think of all the times I've been a regular beast towards them, and if He would let me relive my life I'd be off like a thunderclap. But here I think of Sidney, and I take comfort in knowing that if I die it will be in the service of Him. Sidney was nothing and had nothing in life, not even love, but in death he gained everything. I'll always remember his last words: 'Yes, this is a far, far better thing that I am doing than anything I have ever done in my life. The eternal rest that I am going to will be a far, far better rest than any I have ever known.' At the end, after death, he was finally loved…_

_So much seems to be happening at once. Lucy says Auntie and Uncle are going to be on the same train as us today, before they catch one for Bristol to try and talk with Susan, to ask her to go home. I feel so sorry for S.; she doesn't realise what a blessing it is to have loving parents._

_And I do love Dad and Mum, so much. I don't know what else I can do to show them that I do love them.__**"**_

Alberta Scrubb closed the journal with a sigh. There was no more; the notebook was filled, to the last line. And I do not know what became of it afterwards. Perhaps she grasped these words and this admonition from beyond the grave and, with the stubbornness inherent in her family, never let go. The withered love in her heart, sprinkled by the blood that had been shed for her, would have grown and blossomed. Or perhaps, as she had already done so often, she shut out these words. In that case, they would find their final earthly repose in the ever-growing heap of good deeds rejected and forgotten by the Alberta would have to decide; it is not for me to know and tell.

**But this is not how the story ends…**

_I will be changing my pen name to ResOmnesBeneFacere before the next update._

_The last chapter (Eustace and Jill) was, I believe, rather weak as far as the theme of sacrifice. Hopefully this makes up for that. _


	6. Chapter 6

**88888**

**May 13, 1950**

**Parish of St. Mary-At-Finchley, Finchley, England**

**88888**

The organ, a relic of a bygone century, had been heavily damaged along with the rest of the building during the war. But now it stood restored, the notes bellowing lustily from it echoed by the bells high above the church. These bells had tolled for far too many a funeral over the decades. That day, though, they rang a message of hope, of renewal and new life. For the bells tolled no more. Instead, the bells pealed with the joy of a wedding.

Joy, for a few months, had been a foreign emotion for Susan. Hurt, anger, and despair were far more familiar terms. She and Alberta would have understood each other. But as she watched the light filtering through the windows and off the radiant faces of those around her, Susan reminded herself that these emotions were now buried.

Have you ever seen beams of sunlight reflecting off suspended particles of dust in the air? It makes one want to sit still, afraid to breathe and maybe disturb the glorious sight. It calls for reflection; it evokes nostalgia. And so many a memory passed before the young woman as she waited.

Particularly, Susan thought of a book she had read, in those dark days after the accident, that had given hope to her. It was titled "The Problem of Pain," but it might well have been called "The Problem of Susan." She would love to talk to Mr. Lewis one day. For words by that fledging author constantly came back to mind: "Nothing will shake a man-or at any rate a man like me-out of his merely verbal thinking and his merely notional beliefs. He has to be knocked silly before he comes to his senses. Only torture will bring out the truth. Only under torture does he discover it himself." And this could well have been written about Susan.

"There is no Aslan! There is no Narnia!" Yes, her beliefs had become merely notational, and then withered almost completely- belief in humanity, belief in Him, and belief in Narnia. How could this Narnia be such a beautiful place, if all that could be remembered of it was battles and hard knocks and long trudges? Cair Paravel might have reminded her otherwise; but like the Golden Age, it was in ruins. How could this Aslan be so good, if He had allowed Narnia to fall so low, to become as depraved as that bear? What if Susan's last impressions were of a devastated land, one that was left in the hands of strangers? The pain had spoiled all her interactions. Whether it was the dryads or Bacchus or the Old Narnians, she had barely noticed the awakening future. Life in London and then Bristol, without inconvenient reminders of the sorrow, was much more pleasant. And so she had been swept away in the swirl of invitations and lipstick and nylons. But it was an empty life; she never had a triumph over difficulty, because she avoided difficulties. It was not truly living, because it lacked suffering. And it lacked Him.

Suffering…she had sought to avoid it, and it had found her. Her family was taken away, she found herself without the allowance that her parents and Peter had silently scraped together, and the false friends flittered away from the penniless orphan. Susan had gone through torture, indeed. But in the suffering she discovered herself and her beliefs again.

It began one evening at a bookstand. Books had ever been good friends for her, until she abandoned them—books, with their ability to remind her that far greater horizons existed than the mundaneness of living from one day to the next, of wearily putting one foot in front of the next. It started in boredom and weariness, and became an hour filled with the thrill of reunion. And so she returned the next evening, and the evening after that, and so on until one chilly night when the bookseller hastily pointed out a new arrival before bundling back into his muffler and greatcoat. She went home with the book that night, and sleep did not come as she huddled by the radiator and read.

The title had attracted her- "The Problem of Pain." It was provocative, and it seemed to capture the battle that had been lost in her soul. Pain, suffering- what purpose was there in it all? But Mr. Lewis claimed it was because of love that suffering existed. Suffering, he wrote, shattered the illusions that all was well in her life. It was a reminder that she belonged in another place; earth was but a step on her path. The book claimed that it was all due to His love. And finally it seemed logical to Susan.

It was not a thunderous, earth-shaking moment. But a seed had been planted, and Susan felt more at peace as she stood to face the cold and loneliness. The chill wind off the Severn Firth did not blow any gentler or her clothes feel any less shabby, but life with its burdens had meaning again. And as the days passed, realisation came to her. Could they have died for her? For it was only through their deaths that she had come to her senses. No answer appeared before her, but she knew this was the case.

Peter. Edmund. Lucy. Eustace. Jill. Digory. Polly. They had reminded her of Narnia, and so she had sought to avoid them at the end. And now it was too late; her farewells had been to shrouded bodies, and then she had gone back to Bristol. Far from home, far from all the memories, just as before. But now she returned, at least in spirit, and found others waiting with open arms and hearts. Shortly after that chilly night, Susan finally answered one of Owen Leakey's persistent rings. When the hours of conversation were over a plan had been formed. The two set to work gathering all those most directly touched by the departed, and in the following months somehow succeeded in uniting a most inhomogeneous group. The new friends were all gathered in the pews that day: Susan and Owen, Sir John Crowder and Eleanor Blakiston, Spivvins and Macready, Marjorie Preston and the Poles, old comrades of Edmund's. Together they found comfort, not in mourning for the articles in the Encyclopedia Britannica that would never be written, but in imitating the individuals who been a blaze of light to those around them.

This flame was now dimmed, but it could never truly be extinguished while beating hearts remained to carry on their work. Whether it was the Macready's shelter for troubled youth, or Spivvin's sudden interest in law, or Owen and Eleanor's soup kitchen in the East End, the influence of the departed was felt. And though she now lived across the country, above it all Susan hovered- an encouraging talk here, a logical plan of action there, reminders of what the departed would have wanted. After all, it was she who had the most direct inspiration.

She remembered Peter, late at night, excitedly whispering of his dreams for a better world. She remembered Edmund silently embracing her before he left for Malaya with head held high, and again when he returned with medals and a broken spirit. She remembered Lucy going to care for those affected by an influenza outbreak and then apologising to her afterwards for recklessly ignoring her admonitions. They had been family, not only in name, but in the bonds of a true love that could never be broken or truly forgotten, though eternity separated them. But she would not cry now.

She was a queen of Narnia, and so she would not mope for the departed. She had failed them before in doing so. But now there was work and atonement to be done, and her task at the moment was ensuring that the wedding of Owen Leakey to Eleanor Blakiston was a smashing success.

**88888**

"You look beautiful today, _Phyllis_," Owen remarked as he made his way to where Susan stood, having brought a cup of tea to the Macready. He could not realise the seeming incongruity of a queen serving a domestic.

The young woman shrugged this off. "Do you know that you were the first stranger I ever told my middle name? I hated it, to the point where I think even my siblings had forgotten it. But Owen, I am so happy for you today."

"Or are you simply relieved that there's no longer any danger of me chasing you?"

Owen and Susan shared a jolly laugh at this. "I knew you would be true to what Lucy wanted for you," Susan finally said. "Besides, I think I'm past allowing young men to chase after me. I have neither the time nor the desire anymore."

The young man gave Susan a long look. "Are you certain that you're happy? With life?"

Susan nodded. "It's a hard life, living alone and having to support myself now, but I haven't been so happy in years. I…I have purpose again. I have a reason to wake up in the morning…besides your wedding, though that's important, of course."

"Well, in any case it's splendid to see you back with us," exclaimed Owen. "Ordinarily I'd embrace you…"

"I can handle that for you," chuckled Sir Crowder as he hove into sight. "Mr. Leakey, your bride is about to be abducted by that young officer. I suggest you rescue Eleanor from his clutches."

Owen laughed. "I haven't been that boring already, have I?"

Sir Crowder shook his head at the retreating bridegroom. "Strange, isn't it? So much tragedy, and yet here we and the world go on spinning without a thought to the departed. It's almost obscene."

"But we won't let their memory die," exclaimed Susan. "It's up to us to carry on into the future. And I'm sure they would prefer that we shape the future that they wanted, rather than mope over their loss."

"Humph," was Sir Crowder's reply. "I suppose you're right. Well, you do know that my own son Petre was elected for Ruislip-Northwood? He makes his maiden speech in the House on Tuesday."

"The last part is news for me. My congratulations! How is he taking it?"

"Horribly," grumbled Sir Crowder. "They will be considering the agricultural side of the finance bill, and if there is one subject in which he has no experience, it is farming. He would always pester your brother with questions about cattle and crop times. I had to remind him on occasion that there are no farmers in Finchley."

Susan laughed. "I'd consider it a good sign; he cares about his duty and his people. That's hardly something of which to be ashamed. Rather, I say it's something to be encouraged and cultivated."

"Perhaps." Sir Crowder paused, then remembered what he had been leading up to. "The strangest part is that your brother always had an answer. I never had a chance to ask him how he knew so much about agriculture, of all things."

Memories came rushing back of the green fields of Narnia and vast bushels of Archen grain. "We spent a good deal of time in the countryside during the war," she said, quite truthfully. How she longed to return to that land…

**88888**

Mechanically the bells sounded hour after hour, and all too soon Susan knew that it was time to leave.

"Would you like a lift?" asked Sir Crowder paternally. "My man Francis can take you home."

Susan shook her head. "Thank you, but I drove myself here, so it won't be necessary."

John Crowder snorted. He would still be surprised nine years later, when a woman whom history would know as the Iron Lady supplanted him from his chair in Westminster. But then he remembered another Pevensie, one with the same regal attitude, one whose sage advice he had also learned to follow… "You know, Peter would always respond in precisely that way when I offered to find him a proper timepiece."

And so, after heartfelt farewells and repeated congratulations, Susan left the pleasant party and the shelter of the building. Hendon Lane was barely visible in the pouring rain, and it was with a sigh of relief that she found her car and began the long drive back west to Bristol. Especially on the motorway, it took all her concentration simply to see the road. Perhaps she should have taken Sir Crowder's offer…

Rain, rain, and more rain. Thunder and lighting. A storm whose origins the meteorologists would dissect and whose effects would cause a good deal of grumbling from the local landowners. She was in the heart of it, though, and the only concern was the present.

She glanced to her right and, to her horror, noticed a lorry skidding straight towards her. In the rain, its driver had lost control. Now its headlights loomed like those of a fast-approaching lighthouse. But Susan was not thinking of poetry. To her, the lamps represented only a dark reality.

If this was a tale like that of King Arthur and his knights, Susan, like Guinevere, would have immediately entered a convent after the accident in atonement for her sins. Owen and Sir Crowder and all the others who had been most directly touched by the deceased would have gone on a modern crusade and died in some foreign land, taking their remembrances with them. Other bards would prefer that Susan not suffer at all. Why couldn't Aslan take her too? Surely, now that her eyes had been opened, she could be reunited with her family?

But neither fate awaited Susan. She had a life to live, and life would be neither a fairy-tale nor an epic drama for her. Ever the logical one, she told herself that the odds were simply not right for her to die so soon after the others. She could not allow their memory to fade.

The sacrifices that the others had made were not meant to be fully understood. They were infinite, and we mortals cannot understand infinities. But they enabled Susan to truly live again. Maybe one day even Alberta Scrubb would come to some comprehension. Every action, every tragedy has meaning, and the events of May 7, 1949 were no exception. So much was taken away, and yet so much was given. All that remained was for those who survived to grasp that offering and never let go. And so, with a sickening screech of rubber and a slight jolt as the frame of the lorry's bed scraped against her door, Susan lived.

Some say that in sacrificing oneself, a person approaches the divine. If so, Susan would seem the most human of them all. They were in Aslan's Country. She would continue to tread the thorny paths of Earth for many years. Aslan had set a path for all of them, and the path for the others led to that fateful train ride. Susan's path would be different. She would remain as an example of human frailty and failure, and also of acceptance of pain and suffering. To continue living would be her sacrifice.

Life. It's a strange thing. It's full of joys and heartbreaks; we live in the thrill of one moment or, when so much of it remains, wish for it to end. And only when it is taken away do we realise its value. Life, you with all your sufferings and comforts both great and little; meaningful death, you with your majesty and dark glory; may we never fear either of you. There can be beauty in both of you. And Susan finally saw both of you and understood. She lived.

That day, in a land far, far away, bells immeasurably lovelier than any bound by earth and metal pealed.

**Fin**

"We ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough…There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the only bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning." _Thornton Wilder_

**88888**

_The last time I read Prince Caspian, I was looking for what could have gone wrong in Susan and I was struck by the sense of loss she experienced at seeing Narnia in ruins, and how opposite it was to the flippant attitude she adopted towards Narnia afterwards. I do not think it was accidental. I also noticed that she had precisely one interaction with a Narnian not named Trumpkin; it seems that she faded from the picture after the meeting with Aslan, as if she had already rejected Him and Narnia then._

_There you have it, my labor of love, aside from a (remotely) possible epilogue. I hope that this story will be enjoyed; if it helps one person, then I will be more than satisfied. As for myself, it has given me insight into C.S. Lewis' characters and the times in which they lived; however, more importantly, I believe it has had a positive impact on me personally. For example, I had drifted away from meaningful literature, and as I wrote this I began remembering several books with deep purpose, with true beauty, and picked them up for the first time in years. _

_I would like to thank __Loopyloo2610, whose help was invaluable in making this story as accurately British as possible. I would like to thank C.S. Lewis for the world he created, in which our minds can freely roam. Also, Thornton Wilder's "The Bridge of San Luis Rey" was a large inspiration for this story, first subconsciously and then explicitly once I realized the similarities. It has shaped me in many ways. A BBC movie on Margaret Thatcher, "The Long Walk to Finchley," was the main basis for my depiction of Sir John Crowder.__ Petre Crowder's excellent maiden (first) speech and John Crowder's question on eggs can be found in the parliamentary archives linked to their Wikipedia articles.__ Any other information on the Catcher-in-the-Rye, the convent, and the church were from their websites and Google Maps. The Crowders and Mike Calvert are historical; Mother Perpetua was my invention; and Owen Leakey, of course, was "Geeky Boy" from the movie "Prince Caspian." His name was a play on the words "owing" (to Lucy) and "geeky." And last but certainly not least, thanks to those of you who have reviewed! You've been a huge encouragement to 'put pen to paper' and finish this task._


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